Note: What follows is an example of modern Midrash, a story about a story that invites wondering and perhaps encountering THE STORY in a new way.
Read Luke 13:10-17
I am Annah, Bilhah, Calah, and Dedan.
I am Naomi, Ruth, Shiphrah, Tamar, and Zilpah.
I am every woman who has been bent-over, pushed down, suppressed, turned inward upon herself
from inner or outer origins that bind one up,
that bend one over
keeping one from experiencing the fullness of life,
and the freedom of possibilities that life can bring.
I call myself, Mara, that is “bitter”.
I had thought my life would be full of possibilities.
I had hopes that something grand was to unfold for me.
But oh, how surprising the twists and turns that come our way.
'They say' it is a spirit of evilness that has me in its grip.
It owns me. It possesses me and destroys the true spirit that is me.
I wonder if it is true that an evil spirit has invaded me, bending me over,
or is that which is called a spirit of evil is actually my own spirit
that has been crushed and pressed down so many times,
squeezing all that is good right out of my life.
'They say' I should stay away from the community, outside,
for fear that this spirit might affect others, be contagious.
And so I am bent-over, oppressed with the pain of being cast out
from relationships.
This condition makes me imperfect, unclean, unacceptable
in the great congregation.
Both my spirit and my body are cast down.
My eyes see only my imperfect feet and few steps
ahead where my feet may take me.
My heart is doubled over.
All my life’s possibilities seem a crumpled heap before me.
For 18 long years now….can it really be? Has it been that long
since I was able to look up
and see the sky?
to laugh, to smile?
to feel the sun’s radiance on my face?
to hear the bird’s song?
What was it that twisted life so?
Perhaps my crippled stance comes from years of tears
bent over in prayer for God’s help.
Did it begin with the end of my marriage 18 years ago?
Was it the abuse? the violence? the pain? the divorce?
Were those because of the devastation of the war?
Lack of work for my husband? little food? no security?
Was it the death of my baby? the spite of my sister whose
life seemed perfect? my son’s running away from home?
Perhaps it was that my brothers no longer felt any obligation
fro a sister cast off from their friend, my husband.
Was it a sense of powerlessness in the legal realms that offered no help
nor assistance to a divorced childless woman?
and no pity from the charity relief workers?
and no opportunity within our community to help myself?
Certainly one crippling blow was my father’s death,
who had managed to be some support after
mother’s illness and death. Now his secret help is gone as well.
Is this pain in my stomach, doubling me over,
caused by the deep grief over the poverty
of material goods and security?
or my poverty of spiritual goods and community?
These loses have hammered me, body and soul.
They force me to my knees over and over again.
I am not sure if my spirit is cast down, or cast out.
My spirit had been one of hope and life.
Now, this spirit, with me these long 18 years,
is an alien spirit within me.
I cannot stand straight any more.
I cannot look life, or neighbors, or myself in the face.
So empty, so powerless and hopeless am I.
Yet, yet,
the faith of my mother and father remains rooted
somewhere deep within as I hold on
like a shriveled leaf
that clings to spider’s web in the wind.
With my ancestors before me,
and even with the community that shuns me, I will still pray:
O Lord,
my heart is not lifted up,
my eyes are not raised to high,
I do not occupy myself with things too great
or marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul
like a weaned child with its mother;
My soul is like a weaned child
that is with me.
O my soul, hope in God,
from this time on and forever. (Psalm 131)
I had hoped for something, for someone,
for anything to free me from my bitter bondage.
My one remaining friend, who lives outside of town
in the caves of the lepers,
called to me her thanks for the meager meal
I shared with her.
The she asked me to go find the Rabbi who heals the sick.
She heard he was in town
and asked me to find out if it was true
that he had power to heal.
Ah, this was the same Rabbi that I heard was teaching that
“the poor in spirit would inherit God’s household”;
that “those who mourn would be blessed and comforted”;
that “those who were hungry for righteousness and justice
would be filled with satisfaction”.
Perhaps I could give this Rabbi my poor, downcast, alien spirit,
my tears of mourning, my hunger for goodness.
Perhaps this day, the Sabbath day, I will go and offer my weakness
to God and see what this Rabbi has to say, if he has power to heal.
Perhaps this Sabbath I may find rest for my crippled body and
bent spirit.
O my soul, hope in God.
